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Willowdale drive less than two hours after leaving Town.
    “Astrid!” Felicity came trotting from the front terrace. “I am so very glad to see you!”
    “Felicity, you must not exert yourself in your condition,” Astrid chided as the footman handed her out of the coach.
    “Save your scolds for somebody who will listen,” Felicity countered, hugging Astrid as closely as an increasing belly would allow. “I seem to have too much energy in the mornings these days, and none at all after that. Come. Gareth and Andrew are off working the hounds, so we have time to visit before they join us for luncheon.”
    “Andrew is here?” Warmth bloomed inside her at the thought. Friends could be glad to spend a little time together, particularly friends who were also family of a sort.
    “He arrived last night, and he is staying with us until Lady Heathgate makes her progress up from Sussex. This avoids the awkwardness of having Andrew reside at Enfield with Cousin Gwen, who considers herself responsible for running Enfield.”
    “And how fares cousin Gwen?” Astrid asked as they gained the house and headed for the library. A statuesque redhead answering to the name Guinevere had attended Felicity’s wedding, but Astrid couldn’t recall much about the woman except height, a retiring quality, and vivid green eyes that had looked out on the world with both intelligence and caution.
    Felicity paused outside the library. “The more time we spend here ruralizing, the better I get to know Guinevere Hollister, and the more I like her. Still, her situation will present Andrew with a delicate challenge. She doesn’t want to live anywhere except Enfield, and he won’t leave her there to get by on her own much longer.”
    “Perhaps Andrew should marry her?” Astrid asked as casually as she could. The idea had no appeal. No appeal whatsoever, though a few years ago, Guinevere had been a handsome woman indeed—a tall, handsome woman.
    Felicity led Astrid into the library, a room Astrid hadn’t visited since before her wedding. Andrew had goaded her into taking her first few sips of brandy here, and the decanters still stood in a row on the sideboard.
    “Most people frown on first cousins marrying,” Felicity said, “though it’s certainly done. And I would hope for Andrew and Gwen, if they marry, they marry someone they esteem greatly, not somebody who merely holds a property interest in common. Wouldn’t you want Andrew to have the kind of marriage you had with Herbert?”
    The words came out, though Astrid regretted them even as they rushed past her lips: “Merciful saints, no .”
    Consternation, then pity filled Felicity’s eyes. “I am so sorry.”
    “I’m the one who’s sorry. I should not have spoken so honestly.” Though here in her sister’s house, Astrid could not make herself recite the platitudes one more time:
    Herbert was a dear fellow.
    Herbert was taken too soon.
    Herbert will be greatly missed.
    And Astrid would keep the more vexing truths to herself, as well: Herbert had had a mistress he’d spent more time with than he did his wife, and upon whom he’d lavished funds he could ill afford. His mistress was probably tall, red-haired, and pretty too.
    “I suspected you were putting a good face on things,” Felicity said, pushing the draperies back to let the sun shine through a pair of French doors. “I feared you tolerated Herbert, and I can’t figure out why you chose him. You had other offers.”
    “I did love him, Lissy,” Astrid said, sinking down onto a couch. And why did this assertion sound so forlorn? He’d seemed steady at first, not dull. Dependable, rather than boring. Fair, whereas Andrew was dark.
    Whatever that had to do with anything.
    “Of course you loved him.” Felicity joined her with the sort of undignified descent common to ladies on the nest. “You weren’t in love with him.”
    Rather than meet her sister’s gaze, Astrid instead studied Felicity’s hands, and noticed